When I think about this part of the ordeal, this moment in the crazy weeks that led up to my second child’s birth, I wonder whether I’d lost hope. I think about it like that in a way to challenge myself and who I believe I am. Did I give up on Aiden? Perhaps I did, however briefly. Sometimes I think that giving up on a victim is unforgivable. Other times I consider the term ‘lost cause’ with more weight than I used to.
Since Aiden’s reappearance, I’d avoided the post office. It was run, as all post offices seem to be, by middle-aged women and men so camp they’d fill the stereotype quota on a sitcom. In Bishoptown, though, I knew the names of all the post office workers. There was Sandra, with a son at Cambridge University. Everyone in the whole village knew Sandra’s son was at Cambridge, bless her proud mother’s heart. And Sam—a young guy in his twenties—who once gave me a recommendation for a good beautician to sort my eyebrows out. I hadn’t experienced that level of passive-aggressive criticism since my mother was alive, but I took the damn number anyway. The two of them called themselves collectively ‘San-Sam’ as though they were two celebrities who had married and thus merged their personas into one behemoth of infamy.
Though San-Sam were kind at heart and generally pleasant, up until this point I had always sent Denise to the post office to sort out the mail, partly because the police were worried about any unpleasant hate mail, and partly because I knew they’d fuss over me and I wasn’t sure if I could cope with that. However, I soon realised that I couldn’t have been more wrong. When I stepped into the post office with Aiden next to me, the place went deathly silent.
I joined the back of the queue and tried to pretend that I hadn’t noticed how the usual chatter of the shop had ceased as soon as I’d walked in. The stuffiness of the small shop made me sweat even more, and I felt a trickle run down my temple. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my jumper and hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long. San-Sam were both at the counter, serving a customer each. I was third in the queue behind two OAPs I didn’t recognise. If there was ever a group of people who were forgotten about in Bishoptown, it was the elderly. They rarely left the house, but when they did, it was as a pack. Strength in numbers. Unfortunately for them, we tended not to reallyseethem unless they were in the way, like they were today. It was sad, and it was something I was aware of, but I had too much on my plate to worry about it any further at that time.
It was Sandra who was free first. I flashed her a wan smile, and led Aiden over to the counter. I couldn’t bring myself to leave him in the car alone.
“I… umm… need to pay this postage.” As I passed the card through the gap underneath the glass screen, I felt like everyone in the post office was watching me. I wiped my forehead again.
“Sure.” Sandra took the card, glancing at Aiden as she scanned a barcode on the front of the card. “One pound eighty, please.”
I had the change ready. I slid it through the gap.
“I’ll just get the letter.”
As Sandra walked away, Sam glanced over and gave a small half-smile. He opened his mouth to speak but then stopped. His gaze dropped to his hands and he drummed on the counter like he was trying to fill the silence. I was the only customer left in the shop, and awkwardness reached a new height. Luckily, Sandra bustled back to the front of the post office.
“Here you are.”
“Thanks.”
The envelope was thick, A4-sized, and slightly battered at the corners. I rammed it into my bag and began to leave with Aiden.
“Emma.”
I turned back to face Sandra. Her mouth was flapping open and shut, and I averted my eyes so as not to make the moment even more awkward.
“I’m really sorry about Aiden,” she said.
“Me too,” Sam joined in.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, hurrying to leave the shop before the tears emerged from my eyes. My shrivelled heart twanged a little, like someone had plucked a taut string. That was something I never got used to: the overwhelming feeling you get with genuine concern or well-wishes. Most people are utterly fake. They don’t care about you and they barely manage to hide it. Then you get people like San-Sam, who knock you over with a sudden burst of kindness, and it’s so stupid because they only said ‘sorry’.
I managed to pull myself together back in the car. I took the letter and ripped open the flap while Aiden sat watching me. At least he seemed vaguely aware of his surroundings for a change. There were times when he ignored whatever was going on around him.
The prospectus was thick, which surprised me for such a small college. How many courses did they offer? I flicked through to the arts and humanities section and found the page for art history. My eyes scanned down the page, searching for Jake’s name. But when I found the course—art history on Tuesday and Thursday evenings—the name next to the module was not Jake Hewitt. It was David Brown.
I frowned and searched again. Had I got the wrong course? This time I trailed every single name with my finger, making sure that I hadn’t somehow read the wrong name alongside the wrong course. No. There was no mistake, Jake Hewitt was not listed in the prospectus. I removed my phone from my bag and dialled the number for the college.
“York Lifelong Learning Centre, how can I help you?” It wasn’t the same person; this time, it was a younger woman.
“Hi, I’m really sorry but I have an essay due in tomorrow and I’ve forgotten the name of my tutor. It’s for art history on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Oh, that’ll be David Brown.”
“I could have sworn he was called Jake something. I must be going crazy, unless David is new?”
“No,” she said. “He’s been working here for eight years now. Same evenings, too. But there’s a Jack Hawthorne who teaches Business Studies. Maybe you’re thinking of him?”
“I must be. Thanks so much for your help.”
“No problem.”
I hung up with my heart pounding against my ribs. I dabbed at the sweat on my forehead and leaned back against the car seat. How was this possible? When I’d first rung the college, I hadn’t truly believed it was possible Jake had lied to me about working those evenings. Why would I think that? It had just been to make sure. I’d ordered the prospectus just to double check. If I’d believed Jake was lying I would have called back, but I didn’t. I didn’t call back. Instead I’d forgotten all about it.
In a fit of rage, I punched the steering wheel and let out a slow, deep growl of frustration. How could he lie to me? And why?
